Hey, Alfred, What's Wrong?
by SullyR
Summary: This is a F.A.C.E. family fic! This fic takes place of the normal yet unordinary combo of a family. The story revolves around Alfred, the oldest son and I guess you could call him troublesome. Whereas his little brother, Matthew, is more obedient and less to get on anyone's nerves. Anyways, Alfred seems like your normally hyped up and happy-go-lucky teenager, but that's not true.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey guys! So this fic is basically about Hetalia's F.A.C.E family or France, America, Canada and England: Francis, Alfred, Matthew, and Arthur (if you didn't know). I've had this fic idea in my head for a while and started writing this a long while ago, too. I don't know why, but I'm sort of obsessed with this outrageous family. I especially adore fics or versions of this family when Alfred (America) is the target for Arthur's (England) pent up anger and frustration and he ends up getting abused. Not sure of the rating completely, but I'll keep it T.**

**Hope you guys like it!**

* * *

"Hey, Dad . . ." Alfred walked up towards Arthur and sat down next to him at the dinner table.

"Yes, love?" Arthur folded his English newspaper in half to look at his son who oddly fidgeted in his seat. "Yes?"

"Can I go over to Kiku's place? I heard he has a new game!"

Arthur mentally slapped his forehead. 'Why did I raise such an unproductive son?' he asked himself.

"Did you finish all of your homework?" the father asked.

"Yaha," Alfred answered. "It's funny, too, because French wasn't that hard, neither was Spanish."

"Alfred, of course you'd do well in French class, your father's French for crying out loud!" Arthur exclaimed, vexed. Alfred smiled as he heard the reference to his papa. "Did you play with Matthew?" Alfred nodded. He sighed.

"Over four times already!"

"Okay, you can go."

"Thanks Dad!" Alfred squeezed his father in a hug, which he knew the man for keeping boundaries, and ran out of the house with his car keys.

"God save the Queen, for my seventeen-year-old is crazy," Arthur sighed to himself.

* * *

Alfred knocked loudly on his friend's door. The Japanese teen opened the door reluctantly and stared at his American friend.

"You came . . ."

"Of course!" Alfred allowed himself in, taking off his shoes before stepping officially in the house.

"Alfred-san, I still have work to do. We can't play yet," Kiku said quietly. Alfred sighed and wrapped his arm around his friend's neck.

"Then I'll help ya! C'mon," the megane-wearing teen dragged his friend up to Kiku's bedroom, already knowing the way to go, having been here many times. "You'll get it done and then we'll play! 'Kay?" Kiku nodded.

* * *

"Mattie?" Arthur popped his head into his son's bedroom. His teenage boy was busy reading a Shakespeare's novel. The boy looked up from his page at his father.

"Yes, Dad?" Mattie asked.

"You think you can set the table for dinner?" Arthur asked. Matthew nodded and placed his bookmark along his page, closing the book and heading out of his room.

Arthur continued his cooking by the stove, following the cookbook instructions because his cooking was horrible. Arthur turned his head slightly to glance at his son setting down four plates and silverware and napkins and cups.

"Hey, Matthew, do you think you can pick up your brother?" Arthur asked.

"Didn't he just leave a while ago?"

"Still, it's suppertime. He knows not to be late, but you know how he is," Arthur said.

Just then, they heard the front door click open until it closed again.

"_Bonjour, mes amours," _the Frenchman greeted, walking into the kitchen, draping his jacket over one of the chairs at the dining table.

"_Bonjour, _Papa," Matthew said, giving his father a welcoming hug.

"How was work?" Arthur asked his husband. He started placing the food on the dishes on the table.

He decided to make crumpets with spaghetti since he found that he was in the mood and prepared to make that even though the combination was out of place.

"Dad, what should I pour for drinks?" Matthew asked as he watched his father sit across from his papa.

"I'll 'ave wine, my dear Matthew," his papa said. Matthew nodded, getting the cold red wine from the bottom of the fridge.

"Can you fix me some Earl Grey?" Arthur asked. The teen nodded, happy to help his parents. Matthew decided he'd just drink chocolate milk. He knew his brother would like to have a coke, so he filled up his glass.

Speaking of his brother, loud laughter was heard from outside through the window. Arthur sighed along with Francis.

Alfred stomped into his house, leaving loud farewells to his friends. He trudged up to the kitchen and smiled.

"Hey! What's up, Papa!" Alfred wrapped his arm around his papa's neck and pecked a kiss on his slightly bearded face.

"You as well, Alfred . . . What are you smelling like?" his French father asked. Alfred hiccupped slightly but covered it with a burp. The seventeen-year-old stumbled into his seat next to his brother.

"Ooh! Dad, whatcha cook?" Alfred asked looking at his plate. Arthur glared at his son but answered anyway.

"Crumpets and spaghetti, lad." Alfred giggled.

"Cool."

"Boy . . . You didn't answer your father's question." Alfred looked up from slurping his spaghetti. He looked towards his father to his papa. He glanced quickly at Matthew.

"W-What was the question?"" he asked.

"Alfred, _mon fils_, were you drinking?" his papa asked. His voice was calm but worried. His dad on the other hand, seemed pissed. Again. Alfred knew he couldn't lie.

"Y-Yes . . ."

"What were you drinking, Alfred?" Arthur asked. The Englishman was fuming slowly, eating his food just as slow.

"Uh . . . Hennessy . . . Bud Light . . . somethin'. I don't know."

"You have the nerve . . . Coming into this house drunk! It's one thing if it's your father, but you are seventeen!" his father yelled. Alfred flinched.

"Dad, you're so loud."

Matthew gulped as he stared around the dinner table. 'Al screwed up again . . .' he thought to himself. He noticed that Alfred's leg was shaking beneath the table. He did that when he was nervous. He also ate quickly when he was nervous. Matthew watched as Arthur narrowed his eyes down at his brother. Arthur nodded his head at Alfred.

"Where'd you get that bruise?" Arthur was referring to the large black and blue bruise on Alfred's neck. It was very visible, but Alfred usually kept it hidden by his large jacket. Alfred gulped.

"Uh . . . I was in a fight . . . with one of my friends . . ." the teen answered quietly, hesitantly.

Arthur finished his meal abruptly before leaving the dinner table.

Everyone else was quiet. No one said anything. Everyone knew that Alfred was lying.

Whenever Arthur got drunk, being the angry man that he is, he always took his anger out on the teenager. He'd have a horrible hangover afterwards and wouldn't remember a thing.

Matthew heard small sniffling coming from his brother. Matthew looked up from his glasses and watched as his brother slowly got up and gathered the dishes.

"I'll, uh, I'll do the dishes tonight," he said quietly. Matthew glanced at his papa who kept his eyes on his brother. His papa stood and kissed his brother goodnight. Papa looked at him, his eyes telling him to take care of his brother, but he already knew that.

"Hey, Al, you need any help?" Matthew asked, standing next to his brother who began to soak the dishes. Alfred shook his head.

"No thanks, Mattie."

"Today's Friday, why don't we stay up and watch scary movies?" Matthew suggested.

"I'm intoxicated, bro. I'll pass out sooner or later," Alfred slurred.

"Then let me know before you do. I'll help ya to bed." Alfred sighed. He turned around, giving his little brother a kiss on his forehead and then continued doing the dishes.

"Thanks, Mattie, but I'm fine. Go read your book or something." Matthew nodded.

"Good idea, big brother." Matthew ran upstairs, grabbed his Shakespeare book, and flew down the stairs. He sat at his seat at the dining table and began reading.

Alfred snorted. He smirked at his brother. "Don't shove my words back at my face, man. That's so not cool." Matthew chuckled. He read while also keeping a close eye on his brother.

A half hour later, Matthew led his brother to his bedroom before the seventeen-year-old fell on his bed, passed out.

* * *

"_Mon cher,_ you are too hard on the boy," Francis said, laying close next to his husband.

"He needs to learn better. Drinking? I can't believe this!"

"_Mon amour_ . . . you give Alfred a hard time," Francis continued.

"What do you mean, Frog?" Francis sighed.

"To eh . . . To be honest, Arthur, this wasn't the first time our son came home drunk . . ."

"What did you just say?"

"You hurt him, love. He's told me before. He didn't have a choice but to drink away the pain. You know I do that sometimes, as well, _oui?"_ Francis looked at his lover and waited for his response.

"Stupid git! When have I ever hurt him?!"

"When you're drunk, _mon amour_. You can't control it . . . though you get worse when you're sober."

The Englishman seethed at his husband. "This makes no sense."

"Our boy has never been in a fight with his friends. Sure, they play roughly, but he was never bruised. Only you did that to him."

"Why would I choke my lad?" Arthur asked his French husband. He ran his hands through his sandy, blond hair.

Francis sighed. "Well, Alfred thinks that you, eh . . . hate him."

"Impossible."

"Why do you think he talks less now? He thinks that if he says the wrong thing, you'll beat on him again."

"I . . . I have to go say something." Arthur got up but was stopped by Francis's grip on his wrist.

"Let him be. He's probably asleep from all that he's drunken." Arthur nodded slowly. He sat back down and lay next to Francis.

"How can I hurt my boy like that?" Arthur asked himself. His heart was hurting from heartache.

"_Mon amour, je t'aime."_ Francis kissed the Brit goodnight.

* * *

**I hope you guys liked this F.A.C.E. Family fic! I've been having major writer's block on my other stories, but I've been working on this kind of story for a while now. So tell me what you think. Please favorite, follow, and review!**


	2. Chapter 2

Alfred woke up a groaning mess. He ran a hand through his dark blonde hair shakily and slowly opened his crusty eyes to look about the room, the color of pale blue with red on one wall and on the ceiling.

"Ow . . ." he grumbled as he subconsciously rubbed at his neck for sleeping at an awkward angle for the night. A knock was heard on his door and before he can ask who wanted entry, his brother walked in, carrying a tray of water and aspirin like a waiter delivering food. "Mattie . . ."

"Here," Matthew appeared before his brother and gave his brother two pills. Alfred was too tired to move much so he opened his mouth slightly and popped the pills in. Matthew held the glass before his brother's lips and tilted it, having the cold, refreshing water slide through his mouth. Alfred swallowed carefully and wiped away the water that overflowed the edges of his lips.

"I feel sick, Mattie." His brother nodded.

"I know."

"Where's Papa?"

"Making breakfast."

"Dad?"

"Doing the laundry. He said he'd do something nice for you so he put in Tony to wash." Alfred sighed.

"Yeah, Tony's pretty messy."

"Do you need help getting up?"

"Can I just lay here?"

"Well, Papa said for me to bring you breakfast in bed when he's done cooking but then Dad began arguing and said that you shouldn't be so lazy." Alfred sighed heavily again.

"Of course." He reached out a hand and was pulled up from the bed with the help of his younger brother.

"Dad said to shower before you come downstairs."

"Alright. Thanks, Mattie." Alfred patted his little brother's head of hair before slowly making his way to the bathroom.

Alfred took his time ignoring his reflection in the mirror because he already knew he looked like crap. The mirror couldn't hide the fact that the area below his broad chest sported large purple bruise. Alfred sighed as the memory of once again another beating had taken place.

_After football practice a week ago, Alfred came home late where his drunken father sat waiting for him on the couch with a bottle of vodka, which he knew his uncle, Ivan, had given him._

"_Yo . . . What's up, Pops?" he said, walking into the room, dropping his equipment bag near the TV, playing some _I Love Lucy _marathon._

"_Speak properly, boy," his father said. Alfred only nodded in response._

"_How was your day, Dad?" he asked._

"_Well, it's very uneventful without having someone to amuse me," his father purposely pointed his green eyes at him. Alfred clicked his tongue._

"_I think Papa will suffice." His father shook his head. "How 'bout Mattie's hockey game?" _

_Another shake of disapproval. "Football?"_

_Nope. His father bent his finger out towards him to come forward. _

_Alfred sighed once more. "I think I should get washed up. Hey, have you seen Mattie?"_

"_Alfred, come here," Arthur said, his voice deep and serious all of a sudden. Alfred breathed in and shut his mouth, walking forward towards his father. Alfred sat on the arm of the chair his father was sitting in._

_Instantly Alfred could feel his father's rage. Every little thing he does pisses the man off. He just knew that he crossed the thin line for sitting right there. Already did Arthur take a swing at him with the half empty glass . . ._

Alfred shook his head. He put on the shower and stepped in.

"Heh, I don't think that thinking about stuff like that is good when having a hangover," he muttered to himself.

After his shower, Alfred headed downstairs and walked into the kitchen where he was greeted by his papa.

"'Morning, my son," Francis cooed, walking over to give the young teen a kiss on the forehead.

"'Morning, Papa," Alfred said quietly. He noticed his dad wasn't downstairs yet, so he took his time setting the table while Matthew put food on the plates. "Where's Dad?" he asked.

"He's getting changed," Matthew answered. He bumped elbows with Alfred. "He put Tony in your room." Alfred nodded.

They heard a hiss from behind them and turned around to see their papa holding his hand tightly. Alfred saw the cut his father had in his palm and the small stream of blood overflowing from the small slit. "Ow!"

"Papa!" Matthew cried. Alfred almost stopped him from panicking but was too focused on helping his papa. He ran to his equipment bag in the living room and grabbed the box of Band-Aids he had and ran back to his papa. He quickly disinfected the cut and bandaged his father's hand. From experience, Alfred wasted no time in fixing injuries, even minor ones like this.

"Papa, are you alright?" he asked. Francis nodded.

"Thank you, Alfred, I'm alright!" Francis blew on his hand slightly to calm the burning feeling.

Alfred released a sigh of relief. Matthew walked up to Papa. "What happened, Papa?"

"I cut myself by accident. Don't worry, mon amour, I'm okay," Francis said sweetly, trying not to worry his son. Matthew nodded.

Just then, there was a knock on the arch of the kitchen door. Everyone turned to see Arthur standing in the archway. His expression was a little dark . . . and it was aimed at Alfred.

"'M-Mornin', Dad," Alfred said quietly. Arthur scowled at him. The Englishman stepped into the kitchen, giving Francis a light kiss on the cheek and then quickly checking the small wound on his hand. Arthur turned to Matthew and gently smiled at him and mumbled a "'Morning, love," to him. Then he turned to Alfred, a snarl forming across his handsome face.

It was silent in the kitchen as everyone stared at each other, waiting for something to happen. Arthur cleared his throat.

"Alfred," he finally spoke, "How much did you drink last night?" Alfred gulped slightly.

"Um . . . a lot." Arthur hmphed slightly.

"Then I don't think you should eat right now."

"Oh, c'mon, mon cher. Let ze boy eat so he can feel better," Francis chimed in. Arthur scoffed at him.

"Alright. Let's all sit and have a nice breakfast," he said, sitting down at the table. Everyone sat down quietly and after a short prayer of thanks, they all began to eat the food Francis cooked.

After a while of silent eating, Arthur glanced at Alfred who was eating slowly.

"Alfred, where were you last night?"

Alfred dropped his fork on his plate and looked at his father. " . . . Out with my friends . . ." Arthur nodded slowly.

"Do you have football practice?"

"There's a game next Saturday," the teen replied. Francis clasped his hands together excitedly.

"Oh, really? Can we go?" Francis asked. A small smile appeared on Alfred's lips.

"Yeah, yeah, Papa." Alfred turned to his little bro.

"Hey, Mattie, what about you?" he asked.

"What about me?"

"Do you have a hockey game coming up? I'd love to see it!" Matthew chuckled.

"Yeah. I bet there's going to be a lot of brawls so I bet you'll love the game even more, Al." Alfred smiled at that. Hockey games were exciting.

After breakfast, Alfred and Matthew decided to play videogames in the living room. Arthur grew tired of hanging around Alfred so he went upstairs to his and Francis's bedroom to relax. Francis decided on reading one of his French love books on the couch near the boys.

"Al, stop winning!" Matthew whined. Alfred laughed at his brother.

"Sorry, Mattie. Why can't you just admit that you suck at playing videogames?" Alfred asked. Matthew pressed down on his controller

"Because I won't admit that you're 'amazing' at playing these gore games!" he exclaimed.

A little while later after playing videogames, the boys ended their playtime together.

"Hey, Al, I'm going out with some friends, you wanna come with us?" Matthew asked, getting up from the floor. Alfred stood as well and looked at his brother then to the empty hallway and then quickly at their papa who held up the newspaper higher so that he seemed interested but was listening to their conversation. Alfred smiled softly.

"Nah, I'm okay," he answered softly. "I think I'll help Papa do some work around the house." Matthew nodded, grabbing his stuff. He hugged Alfred and left the house.

Alfred let out the breath he was holding. He heard the crumples of newspaper and looked towards his papa.

"Is everything alright, Alfred?" Francis asked. Alfred looked at him.

"Yeah, I'm fine, Papa." Francis glanced at his son. Alfred looked pale; he had slight bags under his eyes.

"Are you feeling well?" Alfred scratched the back of his head.

"How's your cut?" the teenager asked, dodging the question. Francis gave him a look.

"Alfred." The boy breathed again. He took a seat on the armchair of his Papa's chair. He knew that his papa wouldn't mind him sitting there.

"I . . . Papa," Alfred started, his voice getting low. Francis set down his newspaper and focused his eyes on his son. He noticed that the boy was swaying a bit. He put his arm around his son's waist to try to steady him. Tears started to form in Alfred's eyes. He put his blue-eyed gaze towards Francis. "P-Papa . . . Why does Dad hate me?" he asked, his voice cracking. Francis frowned as he stood up from the chair and pulled Alfred into an embrace. Francis listened to Alfred sob through his shirt as he rubbed small circles over his back and softly combed his fingers through the teen's dark, blonde hair.

"Alfred, my son, your father doesn't hate you," Francis softly told him. Alfred shook his head, his grip on his papa's shirt tightening. He gasped for a breath.

"Yes—Yes he does, Papa!" he glanced at his father's bandaged hand. "This morning . . . I knew it. He was going to blame me for the cut." Alfred rubbed his wet, teary eyes over the fabric of Francis's shirt.

"Alfred, why would he do that? It was just an accident, non?" Francis asked quietly, his brows furrowing in concern.

"In everyone else's eyes, it was an accident, Papa. In Dad's eyes . . . it was definitely not. His eyes glared at me with killer intent as they always do!" Francis quietly shushed him.

"Quiet, shh, mon amour. You don't want to wake your father . . ."

Just then, a figure walked into the room, his eyes set on the sight.

"There's no need, love. I'm already awake," Arthur said.

Alfred stared wide-eyed at his father. He quickly but gently pushed himself away from Francis.

"Arthur . . ." Francis began. He was given a glare from his husband. He quickly quieted down.

Arthur looked over at Alfred who hadn't stopped staring at him.

"What's the problem?" he asked. The room was silent. Arthur shrugged, making his way to the kitchen to make himself some Earl Grey tea.

Alfred took short breaths of hot air. He was panting. Francis looked at his son.

"Alfred?" Francis asked. Alfred wiped the sweat from his forehead. He looked around quickly, his eyes wide and his expression terrified. He ignored his papa and turned towards the hallway and ran up the stairs to his bedroom.

Busting the door open, he quickly began to put some clothes in his burgundy duffel bag. He stuffed a few pairs of boxers, shirts, jeans, sweats, deodorant, etc. He looked towards his bed and found it to be made and his alien, Tony, now cleaned, was lying atop the made bed. He picked up Tony and carefully stuffed him in the duffel.

Once Alfred found himself done, he ran down the stairs with his duffel hanging over his shoulder. He stopped in the living room, his Papa still standing there, watching him, a pained expression across his handsome French features.

"Alfred?"

Alfred walked forward and gave Francis a quick hug and peck on the cheek.

"Alfred," Francis looked down at him. "Where are you going?"

"I'm gonna stay at a friend's house," he said quietly. Francis nodded slowly and placed a kiss on Alfred's forehead.

"For how long?" he asked. Alfred glanced towards the kitchen then at Francis.

"A week." Francis nodded, understanding his son's sudden decision. He nodded his head to the door.

"Go on," he said.

Alfred nodded and quickly left his house. He decided he'd go to Kiku's place.

Once he arrived on Kiku's front porch, after ringing the doorbell a few times, the door opened up. Alfred stared at his friend. Kiku combed down strands of his short black hair.

"Alfred-san?" Just then did Kiku notice Alfred's disheveled state. "Is everything alright?" Alfred cleared his throat.

"Uh . . . I was wondering . . . if it would be okay . . . if I stayed here for a week?" Alfred spoke his hesitant reply.

"Is there something wrong?" Kiku asked. He looked at Alfred's duffel. "Are you running away from home?" he asked. Alfred shook his head and let out a wary chuckle.

"No, no. Papa knows that I'm at a friend's house. I'm not sure if he knows which." Alfred scratched the back of his head, nervous. "I just . . . wanted some time away from my dad," he admitted. Kiku nodded, understanding his best friend's situation.

"Sure, of course. You can stay," Kiku said gently, as if trying to soothe Alfred's almost vulnerable state.

"Is, is your dad gonna be okay with it?" Alfred asked, his voice so quiet that Kiku had strained his ears to hear him. Kiku nodded, stepping from the doorway to let Alfred in.

"I don't think he would mind." Kiku was leading Alfred to his room. Alfred set his duffel bag on the floor near the TV. Kiku sat on his bed and patted the space beside him. Alfred took the opportunity to sit down and finally let out the breath he's been holding in his lungs. Kiku chuckled a bit.

Alfred looked at him. "What's up?" Kiku chuckled again. "What is it?" Alfred asked, grinning. Kiku barely was able to show emotion. To see him giggle was such a rare sight. Kiku shook his head.

"I don't think I should tell you," he said, his cheeks turning a shade of pink. Alfred playfully slapped Kiku's arm.

"Tell me!"

"Alright, alright!" Kiku gulped, gasping for air. "okay," he said, calming down. Kiku turned his body so that he sat crisscross on the bed facing Alfred. Alfred, having removed his sneakers at the front door, had done the same.

"The other day, I caught my dad—" Kiku cleared his throat, the blush still painted on his cheeks.

"Dude," Alfred said, "You realize that this is starting to sound gross." Kiku laughed.

"I think it gets even grosser than what you're thinking." Kiku looked back at Alfred. "Alfred-san, I caught my dad in the act—" Alfred's eyes were wide in embarrassment, "—with your uncle, Ivan-san," Alfred choked on his own saliva.

"Are you serious?!" Alfred shook his head, trying to erase the disgusting images coming to his mind. "Dude, that's way gross!"

The two teens stared at each other then began laughing. Kiku giggled along with Alfred, glad that he was starting to cheer up.

"Hey, did we ever get to play the new game that I got?" Kiku asked. Alfred nodded.

"I got up to level two, though."

"Wanna play now?" Kiku asked. Alfred's blue eyes practically lit up.

"Yeah!"


End file.
